these first-rate mornings.
pictures of what heaven must be.
but only a glimpse.
like looking back at our own image in windows
or in the body of a car
a distortion
a fantasy
our minds uncomprehending.
as usual.
Dear Miss Lavender, Ltr. 2
Dear Miss Lavender,
I’ve just come back inside after an evening meander. The sun is bloodshot; red and angry as it reflects the wildfires it sees gathering across the prairie lands. The rest of the sky is calm and hazy and silver. Its telling a story, I think, and we can only see one page of it.
Dear Miss Lavender, Ltr. 1
Dear Miss Lavender,
It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood today. You will ask why, I know, for you are inquisitive, like all of us ought to be. It was beautiful because the sun rose, crisp and new from underneath its covers. It graced the sky with a message of lilac and petunia hope. You would have loved it, for you love early mornings and promises of beauty for a day yet unseen.
come
a scalding fever of hope appears
strong like coffee in the hand of an early morning sipper
drink freely and let down slowly
question mark
what is this thing I call faith?
what does it ask from me?
what does it cost me?
dancing angels
the sun-bronzed, curly-haired boy sits slumped against the neck of his chair and nods at me as I pass in my silver car. I am not driving one of the large trucks charting boats into the park and thus, he has no reason for stopping me. Parked parallel to him sits a red mini van (perhaps his mother’s mini van because he doesn’t own car yet?). Maybe he’s saving up the money he earns from sitting and waiting for boats. Maybe he will find a rusted-over, belly-almost-touching-the-highway kind of beast to call his own. He’d be one of those kids that christens their first car with a bottle of fizzy water and names it “Chuck”.
He just seems like that type. But what do I know?
rhododendron
what will you do with us now?
at one time we looked through stained glass. but here we are: smelling the rhododendron on the other side of a broken windshield.
where did it all go?
slow going
a thoughtful farmer once said to keep away from electric wire, keep away from screens (like the one you are reading from right now, dear one) and to communicate slowly. She wishes she could be a better poet like him, however, she’s a rather feeble poet at this juncture in her life. She would be a farmer too, but that’s not working out so well for her currently.
bubbly
It’s kind of hard to tell what exactly she’s drinking, but it’s a melody of healthstuff with a root beer-tasting harmony. Strange. Brown. Dusty. Curious. She wonders if it will cleanse her liver or brighten or skin or simply cause grumbling gas bubbles in her stomach tomorrow at an unfortunate lull in a meeting. She hopes not the latter.
She swirls around the brown mass and takes another sip.
Year of The Famine
It is 2021, and while I have a hundred strong opinions, I would rather drink vinegar and bleach than share them.
Shish kabob your opinion and watch it sizzle and spit as it slowly cooks over the fire range of reality and public drama. Perhaps there, in the charring colors of red and yellow and orange, it will find a way to be edible.
The Silent Storyteller 